


Dance While You May

by wingeddserpent



Series: Misfires [6]
Category: Final Fantasy VII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2011-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:45:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingeddserpent/pseuds/wingeddserpent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a 'guess the pairing' fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance While You May

The press of people catches you off-guard, and you find yourself tensing, hands twitching toward the weapon you did not bring. This is not a fight. You need not be armed.

As you take a breath, you remind yourself that this is not the first party you have attended, though certainly the largest and the only not made up of people you already know. These people are mostly strangers but you can still pick her out of the crowd. Despite the fine silk and fancy shoes, she still moves with that fluid grace of battle and, with nothing but a quick glance, you can pinpoint where she has stored her weapons.

Knives at her breasts, in her sleeves, and at her waist in addition to the usual poison vials at the tops of her thighs.

She meets your gaze and the crooked smile she gives makes your heart beat too fast; you clench your hands, watching as she weaves her way through the crowd to you. “Wanna dance?” she asks you, though there is no music and no one else is dancing.

And you find you do, if only because it means you can touch her. You swallow; your throat feels as though you have not had anything to drink in a few days, though such is not the case. It is still surprising to look down at her - no one had been prepared for how fast you grew.

“I - “ she saves you the embarrassment of answering by grabbing your hands.

Your breath quickens and you feel a blush start to creep onto your face and you cannot help but avert your gaze from her wide smile, because she makes you feel things you have never felt before; she is quick to anger and touch and smile and laugh and cry, and she is like no one you have ever met before. “Hey,” she squeezes your hands, “Come on, if we’re gonna dance, you gotta look at my boobs, right?”

And you blink at her for as long as it takes you to realize she is joking. In the meantime, she positions your hands, fingers splayed on her waist, and she wraps her arms around your neck, and you do not recognize this dance, but it does not surprise you.

There are many things you know nothing about.

You nearly stop dancing (or, rather, moving in time with her at her behest, because you do not know how to dance) when she presses into you, warm, she is so very warm, and you can feel the contours of her breasts through her thick silks.

The twinkle in her eyes and the grin she presses into the crook of your neck suggests she knows exactly what she does to you.

That knowledge makes you shiver - and it is only then you realize that all the party-goers have turned to watch you, mouths twisted as though they have just cut into someone’s bowels, and you still, because her father is watching you, anger darkening his eyes to black.

Beside him stands another man, a large man, with equally dark eyes. But he is watching her, not you.

You look down at her, and she has locked eyes with that man, smile twisted into that cruel expression you have not seen on her face in so long and your cheek stings with it.

It makes sense, suddenly, why she invited you, why she took pains to invite you, and you shove her away, harshly, sick with knowledge. “I will not be used like this,” you say, voice rough.

She stumbles, but looks back at you. There is no anger in her face, and you falter, but she does not; she is gone in a flash and attaches herself to the man who had watched her. The air of the party settles as she leans against him, but she does not smile, and the instant she is gone, you find yourself missing her presence.

She does not look at you, nor does she look at her father; she does not notice when you slip out.

* * *

It surprises you that she is the one who finds you the next morning. You peel your face from the wooden floor, and she says, her tone light, “You musta been pretty drunk,” and you do not meet her eyes.

When she helps you sit, her hands shake, and you catch them in your own, try to steady them, but she flinches. You pull your hands away.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

You shut your eyes, head pounding more from her words than from the drink last night. “Yuffie,” you say, tongue heavy and swollen, “Why did you do that to me? Why did you use me in such a way?”

The words come out bitterer than you intend, and you do not feel victorious when she flinches, though you should. “He’s my fiancé,” she murmurs.

It clicks - she had wanted to anger her father and the man who will be her husband, but the sting of betrayal does not fade and you look away from her. “Why me?” you ask, “You could have asked anyone. Why me?”

“Because I -”

She stops, reaches out to you, pushes a strand of hair from your face. It is then you see the glittering ring on her finger and you look at her face, crumpled with a despair you have not seen there in so long (since it seemed like Vincent was dead, in fact) and she says, “Shelke... I wanted to - say - at the party, that I don’t think you’re – I wanted to – I like your smile. You should smile more, so I can kiss it, but I wanted to say –“

You open your mouth, but she cuts you off, says:

“Shelke, I really -”

And you shush her, because you think you might understand - if it is anything like the way she makes you feel (you, who did not understand feelings at all before) – and you press your mouth against hers, and think you might forgive her.


End file.
